which takes them into the cycle of their mutations, the invisibility of the visible, the inner image of living essences, the nakedness of the currents where the winds of dreams are engulfed; it was the energy that makes the world turn on its invisible hub, the palpable impalpability of the mystery of being there, the ineffable become presence; and it passed over the wonder of the hawthorns and the roses in a painting that preserved the precedents, although it never stopped abolishing itself—I would like for you to touch this beauty that exists only thanks to the victory of the void over fullness, the recomposition of the world’s paintings in keeping with waves of effacement where what kills and encumbers us is drowned—that beauty which sends its roots into the earth and sky and is not born of the continuity of things, but of the destitution that reveals the heart. New landscapes from the story passed over the painting, taking shape, then vanishing in successive volleys of rivers and verdant hills, of valleys of white trees or branches drowning in the invisibility of clouds. The void encircled them with breathing like an ermine stole, made them shine in their brilliant nakedness, then gently dissolved them before giving birth to a new configuration of nature, a new victory of the wonder of visions.
Here, anything is possible, thought Petrus.
“We have heard the gospel of the idiot,” said Maria to Father François.
“Empty and full of wonder. The old song from Extremadura that Luis reminded you about, yesterday, in the cellar,” said Jesús.
“Yesterday,” murmured Alejandro. “An eternity has gone by since then.”
In the final hour of loving
Everything shall be empty and full of wonder
Book of Fathers
ONE
One must know the language of the elves and the peoples of the East of the planet in order to bring about the union of nature and the spirit, but one must also have the imagination of humans to tell the story that commands all the others.
The single brushstroke is the unit through which multiplicity comes about, the bridge between species and worlds, the mold of all novels, the unveiling of the passing sparkle, the feast of wonder, the freedom of the void, and the enchantment of the world.
And what is more, a single brushstroke is proof that reality is always generated by a vision transformed into fiction. The vision offered by the gathering at Nanzen was clear: wonder is born from the void which, in turn, generates the simplicity of beauty.
And, in its wake, the complexity of fervor.
FATHERS
The fourth Book is the Book of Fathers.
One’s understanding of fathers must not be any different from one’s understanding of the other great Books. The female continent fully subscribes to the mandate through which we learn to live. We say fathers the way we could write mothers, brothers, sisters, or friends. But men and elves, beyond gender, beyond culture, inscribe the reality of invisible transmissions upon paternity, the proof that the living are responsible for the dead, and the dead are responsible for the living—thus, the Book of Fathers is the depositary of territories, lineages, and legacies that cannot be detected by the naked eye.
Real prisons and real legacies are always invisible, transmitted by the wind of dreams and the breathing of trees.
EPILOGUE
1938–2018
The fathers came to the rescue of the last alliance.
There are no sons without fathers, there is no life without a mandate, no freedom without legacy. Alejandro had watched in silence as the red arch was transmuted into a black footbridge, and the dead trees appeared above the transparencies of the path. Their vibration was similar in nature to that of the cemetery in Yepes, and there he also found the sparkling of bygone days. The dead of each kingdom speak to one another, he thought, and he wanted to share this thought with his beloved. Looking at Clara, he saw she was gloomy, her gaze distant and dark.
“What’s the matter?” he asked in a low voice.
“Something’s not right,” she said quietly, “but I don’t know what it is.”
Tagore showed them the battlefields of the two worlds, where the fire was subsiding. The clay of fire had consumed weapons and bodies: the surviving soldiers from Ireland and elsewhere were wandering, sobbing, through the snow. Alejandro looked at the wheat of Shinnyodo, imprisoned in its black blood, the field where orcs, bows, swords, and dead bodies had vanished into the flaming earth, and he thought he could hear a new sound. The guardian handed him a flask